


summer storms

by AlphaStarr



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (but like 800 years post-Crimson Flower Route), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Dimidue Week 2020 (Fire Emblem), Fictional Government, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route Spoilers, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Crimson Flower Route, Racial Politics in 21st Century Fódlan, Reincarnation, Temporary Character Death, dystopian undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24355246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaStarr/pseuds/AlphaStarr
Summary: Whatever his reasons for coming here, the stranger arrives alone at a little past eleven at night. Dedue gives a cursory look at the man but then, he pauses. His gaze stutters on the eyes—or rather, the singular visibleeye—and that shade of blue.It pulls at something in the corner of his memory. Dedue could stare into it forever.He almost does, but then the stranger blinks, as if emerging from his own reverie. The stranger purses his mouth in preparation to speak. He starts, then stops, and then starts again to say: "Is this place still open?"Eight centuries after Emperor Edelgard I defeats King Dimitri of Faerghus in her war to unify Fódlan, a peculiarly familiar stranger makes his way to Dedue's family diner in Duscur City.ForDimidue Week 2020.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 17
Kudos: 67





	1. cooking // longing

**Author's Note:**

> Loser who hasn't posted in 2 years tries to remember how to write; tune in for more at 8. A little late for Dimidue Week, but I'm here.
> 
> I'm really interested in the meritocracy Edelgard started a revolution to create, particularly with regards to her (frankly uncharacteristic) acceptance of the idea that the Tragedy of Duscur was perpetrated by the people of Duscur. There is _so much_ that can go wrong with the idea of an Emperor and their meritocratic subordinates getting to decide who “has merit” and who doesn’t, particularly in 1180s Fodlan, during a time where anti-Duscur discrimination is higher than ever before.
> 
>  **Additional Content Warnings:** There's weird reincarnation-related memory stuff that happens in this fic, and it includes remembering traumatic experiences. Some parts of this fic also discuss systemic discrimination practices facilitated by a bureaucratic government with absolute power over its citizens. I'm not sure it's mentioned enough to warrant a tag, but Dimitri is also trans, and there is one reference to top surgery.
> 
> Please stay safe and curate your reading!

The summer before Dedue turns twenty-five, the stranger appears.

It's a bit of a novelty when he arrives in town, enough that Dedue could be forgiven for staring. They don't often get visitors this far north; Kleiman territory is more famous for its early frosts and brief springs than for its sights.

No, it's true, however much it hurts Dedue to think it—there's not much worth visiting for here. The breathless peaks of the mountaintops, the dance of the rolling hills, the craggy cliffsides that cut into curving shores... these might have been beautiful, once upon a time, but that time was an era before the mining operations; before the whalehunting; before the oil-drilling; before the steel factories and automobile factories came and went, leaving only their skeletons to cut rotting, vacant silhouettes across the horizons.

Though it is the only Duscur he has ever known, a pang of grief cuts through Dedue's heart each time he looks out on this dilapidated city, painted in the shadows and echoes of a place that was once full of life. Grief, maybe, or a yearning for the past.

Whatever his reasons for coming here, the stranger arrives alone at a little past eleven at night, carrying two suitcases and a backpack. Dedue isn't surprised; the diner where he works is only open this late because of its proximity to the train station and all the late-night commuters that come with it. When the door jingles open, Dedue gives a cursory look at the man (blond, slim, probably exhausted) but then, he pauses. His gaze stutters on the eyes—or rather, the singular visible _eye_ —and that shade of blue.

It pulls at something in the corner of his memory. Dedue could stare into it forever.

He almost does, but then the stranger blinks, as if emerging from his own reverie. The stranger purses his mouth in preparation to speak. He starts, then stops, and then starts again to say: "Is this place still open?"

Dedue swiftly reassures him that yes, the diner is open; he shows him to a seat at the counter and offers him a menu and turns the heat up on a griddle stove that hasn't seen anyone since dinnertime. The stranger asks him for his name. He gives it.

"Dedue," the stranger repeats, and his voice does something to a tightness in Dedue's chest. "After Dedue Molinaro... of the Tempest King legend?"

The stranger smiles, and Dedue's heart clenches. He feels like he's letting him down gently when he says, "It is a popular name in the city of Duscur... I did not know it was also the name of a character from that story."

"Ah, I see," the stranger replies, his expression seeming to wilt. As if searching for something to do, he turns back to the menu.

Dedue feels as if he should say something, but what, he doesn't know—doesn't remember, perhaps. And so, instead, he asks, "Are you ready to order?"

"I..." the stranger begins, his hands trembling as he sets down a menu he hasn't read. He swallows those words and says instead, "Today's special, please. And hot tea... chamomile, if you have it?"

"Chamomile tea," Dedue repeats, as if those words might spark a memory in him. It's an afterthought when he adds, "And a special."

He doesn't recall what the special is supposed to be for Wednesday nights; he doesn't usually work this shift. But his feet take him back into the kitchen, where the hot griddle awaits, and his hands know what to do.

Butter first, and then a flat slab of turkey sausage. Then bread, buttered and seasoned with just a dash of paprika, a pinch of cayenne. The cheeses follow: first a layer of a sharp yellow variety followed by an onion-laden cream cheese. The slab of sausage, now fully-cooked, and then a generous layer of Gautier cheese. Another slice of buttered, seasoned bread, and the whole thing goes back on the griddle while Dedue reheats a cup of the _soup du jour._

(The diner's gas stove doesn't work; he has no choice but to make it at home and heat it in a microwave.)

By the time it's ready, Dedue already begins to seriously doubt his judgement. Surely it's too greasy; surely that's much more cheese than anyone would ever want in a sandwich? He's not exactly confident that the more traditional pumpkin soup is a great compliment, either. But he cuts the sandwich anyways and plates it, two triangular halves with a cup of soup on the side; he lifts the tea bag from the tea and places it directly before the blue-eyed stranger.

"That smells delicious," he comments, the corner of that eye crinkling as he smiles.

The newcomer positively devours the meal, putting to rest any doubts Dedue might have had towards it. In fact, he licks his thumb with such an expression of euphoric delight that Dedue feels intrusive for merely watching. The sigh of pure warmth and satisfaction as the stranger settles down with his tea does another funny thing to Dedue's heart, and he thinks: _I never believed in love at first sight but this might be it._

Dedue manages, somehow, to find his words. "What is your name?"

"Dimitri," the stranger replies, and then, he doesn't feel quite so strange anymore.

Dedue nods as he finally begins to understand. He guesses, "After the Tempest King... Dmitry Blaggith."

"Bladdyid," Dimitri automatically corrects, only to hastily backpedal: "Sorry; it is a force of habit. I truly apologize... my father is a medieval historian, with a focus on Faerghus during the Unification War. He, um, strongly disagrees with a lot of popular adaptations."

"I see," Dedue replies, though he isn't sure he does. He adds, somewhat regretfully, "I've only seen the movie."

"It was an interesting movie... it just doesn't follow much of the legend." Dimitri's eye flickers up to meet Dedue's. "It is true that he sides with the Immaculate One against Emperor Edelgard, but she defeats him in battle at the Tailtean Plains... not at the gates of Fhirdiad, like in the film."

Dedue answers with a thoughtful hum, contemplating where he might have heard of that confrontation at the Tailtean Plains before. Perhaps in a class several years ago, he thinks, though the Kleiman Trade Academy didn't exactly put much history in its curriculum.

Whatever natural inclinations he may or may not have towards historical study, Dedue doesn't doubt that Dimitri's knowledge on the subject far outstrips his own. The merit-based job selection system Emperor Edelgard had implemented over 800 years ago didn't exactly account for the costs of transportation, the costs of room-and-board, the costs of being away from his family and their run-down diner always in need of extra hands. Even then, Dedue knows it is unlikely he would have been considered for anywhere prestigious enough to have a _medieval history_ department—no, not since the first Kleiman Meritocrat of Edelgard I's era decided that "merit" was reserved for those who _didn't_ wear scarves patterned in traditional Duscur patterns or earrings with the sigils of Duscur gods. Not since he chose successors who chose successors who believed the same.

Merit or no merit, the sons of historians and the sons of diner-owners live now in different worlds; worlds that perhaps never touch, save for in dreams and in grilled cheese sandwiches.

Dedue wishes that the connection wouldn't end; he wishes that their worlds had never parted in some bygone era, long before they were born. So he extends this moment in what way he can, and instead of offering the check, he asks, "What role does Dedue play, in your legend?"

( _Your legend_ , he says, because the words feel right. But still, he wonders: would it be too forward if he replaced that _Dedue_ with _I_?)

It is apparently the right thing to say; Dimitri's face takes on a look that one can only describe as soft, happy.

"He is King Dimitri's most stalwart shield... his loyal advisor... and above all, a deeply cherished friend," Dimitri offers a shy, slight smile, and when he doesn't take his eyes off Dedue, those words feel like they could be for _him_. "An avid gardener and an excellent cook, as well... if I remember correctly, I mean."

Those words leave Dedue awestruck for a moment, but reality comes back to him as he realizes, "It seems unlikely that a king would feel that way about a man from Duscur."

Dimitri's brow furrows in concern. "What do you mean?"

"Even in the city which shares its name, little is known about the old Duscur," Dedue shakes his head. In a way, he's almost grateful that they spent so little time discussing it in secondary school. "History only speaks to its betrayal of Faerghus... and the genocide after."

"That isn't—" Dimitri starts, his back straightening. But he cuts himself off and says, "I mean... maybe that's what they _say_ , in most textbooks about Fódlan's history. But the... the _ancient nation_ of Duscur existed for hundreds of years before the Tragedy. It had its own customs, its own culture, its own language... yet now, it is remembered only for the darkest point of its history."

A pang of grief resonates in Dedue's heart at those words, though he knows them to be true. He's used to keeping the thought to himself—he doesn't dare to speak it aloud—but he finds Dimitri so achingly _familiar_ that he cannot help but say it:

"I dream of a different Duscur sometimes," admits Dedue, hesitant. He isn't sure if the word _different_ adequately describes it.

It is an older Duscur, a simpler one, without the mines and factories; it is a place where they do not need machinery to strip the earth of its steel. Ores are plentiful, and blacksmiths send their children to gather smithing-stone with baskets. The land is good. Agricultural villages trade in spices; they hang them to dry so that they scent the air with something spicy-sweet and homey. He knows it isn't real, that this Duscur was lost in the past, if it ever existed... but still, it's less embarrassing to say out loud than he thought it would be. There's something in Dimitri's face—or in his posture, maybe—that makes Dedue want to tell him things.

Dedue takes a breath. He considers saying something more, but he falters, then, his voice threatening to break with an emotion he can't quite comprehend. He realizes where he is—talking to a stranger in his family's diner, close to midnight—and loses the courage to speak.

"In the springtime," Dimitri suggests, "I imagine the hills here once came alive with wildflowers of all different varieties. Some so tall that they cover your kneecaps or reach a child's waist. Others that carpet the ground in patches of all different colors, like a sprawling quilt."

Dedue's mouth opens slightly. Then, he closes it. He's thought about how he would describe the Duscur he sees in his dreams, even if he never thought anyone would want to listen. He's thought about it in almost exactly those same words, and half of a memory begins to trickle in like a waking dream.

He replies simply, "They are the most beautiful sight in the world, so much that words do not do them justice."

"I wish I'd had the chance to see them," Dimitri's gaze meets Dedue's eyes for a moment, his expression unmistakably tender. "Is that a dream you have often?"

How can he explain what it feels like? How can he describe something scarcely more substantial than a collage of sleep-images, blurred like a vague and distant memory? It swims below his skin like the currents beneath the ocean, ever-present and yet ever-sinking, invisible, slipping perpetually just out of his reach.

For lack of a better description, Dedue simply says, "No."

"Oh," replies Dimitri, softly. "I mean... it is a beautiful dream, to imagine what the Duscur of the past might have been like."

Duscur sees the occasional visitor who comes in an attempt to _reconnect with their roots_ , citing a grandparent of half-Duscur descent. They usually only meet disappointment when this hollowed-out city speaks so little of the industrial center Duscur had been a hundred years ago; the bustling seaport it had been two hundred years ago; the artisan villages of eight hundred years ago. Dedue looks his visitor over again, this time more closely, but he instinctively knows Dimitri isn't one of them.

The sorrow of his expression holds no disappointment, Dedue thinks. And something about him—his face, his posture?—something about him feels inexplicably linked to _Faerghus,_ as if the fallen Kingdom lives deep within his skin.

He states, half-questioning, "You have had the same dream."

Dimitri swallows. His mug is empty when his eye flickers back downward, his tone oddly apologetic. "To some extent. It is... it is part of why I am here. To help record its culture, its customs, its history. There... there may not be enough left to rebuild Duscur anymore. But I intend to do everything within my power to recover whatever I can, however I can... to preserve it. It is the least I can do."

Dedue's brow furrows; those words strike at the heart of something he almost remembers. "To rebuild it?"

"To, um, reconstruct its past, I mean. I've worked with historical reconstruction before—looking through the ruins of Fhirdiad for artifacts, its historical archives for half-burned scraps of scrolls. Searching for some sign that those fragile, shattered remnants once touched a legend's hand..." Dimitri presses his lips together, as if the very thought of the city ablaze might be enough to bring a bad taste to his mouth. He stares ahead blankly, haunted, "I might have spent my lifetime chasing down ghosts."

"The landscape of the Old Duscur may be gone," Dedue acknowledges, a little bemused and a little concerned. "But so long as its people live and remember, its culture will never be lost."

"Yes... yes," replies Dimitri, a sort of revelation lighting his expression once more. He leaves Dedue breathless when he smiles at him and grins, "You are correct, of course... the stories passed down from generation to generation thrive, whether any books remain or not. The only ghosts I expect to find are safe within the memories of their descendants, ones who've been waiting patiently to tell their stories. And... the living demand their own kind of tribute that must too be paid."

Dedue's heart feels satisfied by that statement; it is the same profound satisfaction he feels when a gently-nurtured houseplant sprouts new growth. He agrees, "Duscur's history lives in unexpected places."

"Like in its diners?" Dimitri suggests.

A bit of pride wells up in Dedue's chest, and he says, "The pumpkin soup is my great-grandfather's recipe."

"Then I will be certain to return," Dimitri replies. He adds, a little hopefully, "And, perhaps... you could tell me more about the Duscur of your dreams?"

"Perhaps," Dedue agrees. "But I am... _curious_ to hear more about your legend."

"The legend, yes..." Dimitri's gaze grows momentarily unfocused. "That is... what the folklore says about the Tempest King... and his most loyal retainer..."

And suddenly, Dedue sees it: the same man, his hair hanging down from its current ties, a thick fur cape lain across his shoulders and no eyepatch. Both of his eyes—blue, reflecting the overhead storm—gazing out into the horizon with an unfocused stare. The words _your majesty_ flicker through Dedue's mind; he has to physically bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself grounded in reality.

"Dimitri," he says, but the very name tastes like insubordination when it passes from his lips. It's an uncomfortable feeling that springs from something _not quite_ déja-vu.

"No... I apologize; it is late," Dimitri shakes his head, as if to physically dispel the fog from his mind. He asks instead, "How much do I owe you for the lovely meal?"

Dedue feels something in his chest deflate at that, but he swallows back his disappointment. It's past midnight, now, and of course the stranger must be exhausted from his travels.

He rattles off the price for one of the sandwiches on the menu and forgets to add the tea. Dimitri digs through his wallet for a moment, pulling out a note that's nearly twice the amount listed. When Dedue goes to return his change, however, he refuses:

"No, no change. After all... you listened to my silly ramblings about some... some long-dead king." Dimitri laughs, but it emerges breathy and dry. "Please, take it."

Dedue's brow furrows, "I can... call you a taxi, if you wish."

"No... if this map is correct, my apartment is just a few blocks from here," Dimitri briefly fumbles with a stapled packet of printouts. He seems like he wants to say something else, but instead, he just smiles and says, "Thank you."

"... thank you," Dedue echoes, not sure what to make of that statement. He wonders if he should offer to walk him home.

"No... truly I am grateful," Dimitri stands and picks up his bag. "Although... I do have one more question. The hero who shares your name, Dedue Molinaro.... I never mentioned that he was from Duscur, although it is true that he was. You are... you are _certain_ you have not heard this legend before?"

A glimmer of lightning momentarily shutters his vision, and then a low, rumbling thunder. For that split second, Dimitri's bag doesn't look like a bag anymore but like a lance with its glowing heart pulsating; he's _sure_ he's seen that weapon in a big-budget blockbuster somewhere. 

But then, the image is gone, though it leaves Dedue momentarily dizzy; he inhales slowly, the air echoing the taste of blood and steel and rain. Dedue swallows it down and replies, wavering, "Maybe, once. A long, long time ago."

He watches Dimitri leave the diner; he stands watch at the window until that blond hair glimmers out-of-sight. He's a stranger, Dedue rationalizes, but still—he gets the feeling this isn't the first time he's seen Dimitri walk away.


	2. redemption // forgiveness

Dimitri's ringtone wakes him the morning after he arrives in Duscur. He rolls over on the sofa, left there by a previous tenant, and squints tiredly in the general direction of his charging phone.

The caller ID only reads _El_.

Dimitri feels a frisson of irritation as he fumbles the tangled blankets from his body. He still wants to strangle her sometimes; still feels the revulsive shudders of betrayal course through his spine; still hears the voice of the Archbishop, as cool and cutting as steel; still feels the promise of _vengeance_ , yes—a vengeance that requires the lives and livelihoods of Faerghus' citizens to be placed beneath the Knights of Seiros' command.

The Tempest King agreed readily at the time, fueled by the citizens' support and the storm of emotions warring within his own heart. Rhea sometimes spoke softer words about how his parents, standing at the Goddess' side, would gaze down upon him proudly as he severed Edelgard's head from her neck, and that was enough to keep him from ever rescinding her powers.

But Dimitri, _this Dimitri_ , grows up watching his father excavate the ashy, charred remains of pre-Unification Fhirdiad; he has seen the only surviving shred of paper confirming Dedue's existence at all. It is half of a certification exam carefully preserved beneath plexiglass, so delicate that it would only take a few weeks of sunlight before _Dedue Molinaro_ would disappear into the legends without any proof of existence, like a character merely _made up_.

One ancient historian noted that the Battle of Fhirdiad took nearly twelve hours, but Rhea had set the city on fire as a defensive tactic nearly an hour before the first engagement. Edelgard tells him that it was actually closer to seventy: roughly twelve to defeat The Immaculate One, and then three days to put out the flames.

She isn't lying anymore, he thinks; perhaps she even regrets that she killed him, once, in a lifetime long ago. Dimitri knows.

These last fifteen years, he's heard her pacing in the night, driven half-crazed with the guilt that she sent Fódlan to war to create a better world, only for it to end up like _this_ : a cesspool of corruption where "merit" has become merely a secular iteration of the Crests, hand-chosen by fallible, power-hungry mortal meritocrats. He understood, then, that Edelgard was never lying when she claimed she had no hand in perpetrating the Tragedy of Duscur; that her only crime was failing to investigate it and failing to exonerate Duscur of its undue guilt.

Edelgard I isn't the first ruler to have ever made mistakes, nor will she be the last. He's made enough errors in his own reign to understand that much.

Complete forgiveness eludes him, and maybe it always will, but he _knows_ her, now; he maybe even forgives her more than he forgives himself. He forgives _enough_ that he doesn't have it in him to ignore the call.

He picks up his phone and yawns, "Good morning, El."

"Good morning, Dimitri. I see you made it to your apartment all right."

Dimitri realizes too late that it's a video-call, and he's unexpectedly staring down her bespectacled face, ash-brown hair pulled into low ponytails at either side of her neck. He knows instinctively that she's just woken up, too: her pajamas are a gray t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, _Garreg Mach Law_ emblazoned across the chest.

Like this, Edelgard more closely resembles his stepsister El than the Emperor-revolutionary who knocked Aymr into the side of his head at Tailtean; like this, she could be any of the other nine Edelgards he's met throughout his life. The name is common enough. It helps a little that she looks so different from the Flame Emperor of the past.

But still, some higher power saw fit to preserve both of their memories when they were reborn into this world. She's the only other person who would understand it, he thinks, so Dimitri blurts out, "I met Dedue last night."

He still isn't over the shock; the mere memory of it sets his heart pounding in his chest. Dimitri had wandered into the diner by chance, almost—if he hadn't slept through dinner on the train, he might not have gone in at all. The diner car, with its slightly-worn, clean chrome; its flickering, pale-blue neon sign that read MONDATORE'S, missing the horizontal bar that might have crossed the A... its appearance was so unsuspecting that he could have mistaken it for any one of the diners in Fhirdiad.

When he saw Dedue standing at the counter—his face less scarred, his hair a little longer, but unmistakably _Dedue_ —, Dimitri's pretty sure he froze up. And then, he'd stumbled through that awkward, stilted conversation about the half-lost legends of Faerghus. He'd managed, somehow, to fluster his way through an inquiry about dreams and memories and a Duscur that no longer lived.

He'd prepared a script in case something like this happened, but he'd forgotten it completely. He'd forgotten even where he was and what year it was, losing himself in the blue of Dedue's eyes, savoring the sight of a face he'd only _hoped_ to see again.

"He doesn't remember you," guesses Edelgard.

"He doesn't remember me," Dimitri confirms, and the reality of the situation sinks back in. He clarifies, just to be sure, "He only remembers a little bit of what Duscur was like before the Tragedy. Dedue... doesn't remember..."

Edelgard purses her lips at that, as if she doesn't know where to go anymore now that they're both on the same page. At last, she asks, "Do you want him to?"

A chill runs up Dimitri's spine for a moment. Edelgard's theory is that they were reincarnated _like this_ , with their memories intact, to redeem themselves from the actions of their past lives—that the assistance of past friends and past foes both serve as means to the end of a better Fódlan. With that in mind, the answer is obvious.

"Would I wish him to remember the horrors of war? To recall the sight of Kingdom soldiers cutting his family down right before his eyes? To remember how much of his life he once threw away on a life-debt he already paid many times over??" Dimitri barks out a laugh, but it rings with a forced, ironic humor. "How selfish you must think me, El, to suggest I would _want_ such a thing!"

"... I suppose you're right. After a lifetime of service, it is unconscionable to ask for anything more," Edelgard admits. A troubled tic notches her brow, "I've thought enough about it myself. How much happier Hubert was, before he started remembering..."

"That's not the same." Dimitri can't keep the bitterness from seeping into his voice, "He's been a miserable dastard since he moved next door when we were eight. He swore to help you re-reform Fódlan's meritocracy when he was _twelve_."

"You're digressing from the point," Edelgard shakes her head, apparently frustrated. "You obviously miss Dedue—unless I _imagined_ that you owned a poster of his description in the Varley Manuscript. And let us not forget the antique anthology you bought from that bookstore specifically because it contained _The Ballad of Sir Molinaro_. The bookmarks in stepfather's research texts, the Duscur craft-revival charity scarf, the armored teddy bear... need I go on?"

Dimitri's face instinctively reddens, "The teddy bear was a gift from _your mother_. I was six!"

"That excuse doesn't work on me... you were a six-year-old with _several_ years of uncanny past-life memories," Edelgard huffs, half-amused and half-annoyed. "I have to wonder if this is new, or if you were always so obvious."

"You're unbearable, sometimes," Dimitri says. He means it from the bottom of his heart; there is a part of him that _doesn't_ forget that the same stepsister who teases him now also once filled his mind with a vengeance that consumed him. Still, it's heatless: too worn-down with exhaustion and eight hundred years' intermission.

"But I'm right, aren't I?" Edelgard asks, cutting to the heart of the matter. "You miss him."

"I miss him," Dimitri begrudgingly agrees. "But he's happier without—without those memories. His life is... as peaceful as the life he would have led, if not for the Tragedy."

"Is that all there is to it?" Edelgard challenges, arching an eyebrow at him. "I hope you're not suggesting that you've given up on undoing the damage wrought by the last several State Meritocrats of Kleiman province."

"That sounds like you're implying the corruption is limited to the highest level," Dimitri's lip flares irritably. "The entire system of the 'meritocrat' hierarchy, where even the most subordinate of meritocrats has the final say on who has 'merit' or not... to choose who has what job under what conditions, to choose who _lives or dies_! The Tragedy may have happened long ago, but the prejudice of that era lingers on among Kleiman's despotic governors. I must do everything I can to break this cycle of systemic oppression, even if it takes me the rest of this life... it is _the least_ I owe these people, for failing to put a stop to it in my last."

Edelgard worries her lower lip for a moment, probably stewing in guilt over being the one who _created_ this system where the nebulous idea of "merit" superseded all else; the one who agreed to let a Lord Kleiman continue to rule over the lands once known as Duscur, for no reason other than because he'd seemed amenable to her ideals and cooperated readily with Adrestia's rule.

Dimitri lets her consider her mistakes for a minute, just long enough to remind her how dangerous an ideal can be—enough to discourage her from starting a second violent revolution, hopefully. He adds, a little awkwardly, "I should probably let you go... your internship shift starts soon, doesn't it?"

"Yes... of course. I will need to arrive early if I want to secure a position from which I can re-reform this world." Edelgard braces herself nevertheless. "And you, of course..."

"Will meet my dissertation advisor for lunch," Dimitri presses his lips together for a moment. "With any luck, her archaeological findings will finally exonerate the people of Duscur for an attack they didn't commit."

"Will you be able to do it?" Edelgard asks in that utilitarian way of hers, terse but not unsympathetic. "Such a personal event may not be the ideal place to begin unraveling the complicated thread of discrimination throughout Fódlan's history."

"If I back down, who would you ask to perform this task in my place?" Dimitri snorts. "You are the one who suggested that this life is our effective purgatory—a second chance to redeem the actions of our past lives—and if _this_ is to be my penance, so be it."

"No need to be so dramatic," Edelgard sighs, and in that moment, the Emperor evaporates out of her posture until only the girl is left. "My mother will worry if you don't call home, so please do."

"I sent a text," Dimitri replies, less like a fallen king and more like a sulky twentysomething.

"That's not the same, and you know it," Edelgard gives him a judgmental look that's only slightly disturbed by her glasses. She hangs up without a goodbye, like she always does.

Dimitri doesn't blame her for it. The relationship between them has been uneasy since the first time they'd re-met each other, and that was when Edelgard wasn't even able to _recognize_ him but for the differences in his name, the differences in how he'd been introduced to her.

He isn't sure how long it took her to realize who he was, or what he remembered. Perhaps she didn't know for certain until the day he'd finally _firmly asserted_ that he was a boy; refused to answer to any name but _Dimitri_. What he does know is that, even among those they knew in a past life, he and Edelgard are the only ones who remember what happened completely.

Some higher power must be playing a cruel and twisted joke on them, he thinks, to condemn them both to serve the same penance. The worse thought is that Dimitri's somehow—even beyond death—dragged Dedue down into this mess, just the same way he'd dragged him down into war long ago.

He can't let that happen, not again.

A little shakily, Dimitri gets up to prepare to meet his advisor. He tells himself it'll be different, this time. He tells himself that it's better to stay far, far away from Dedue; it's better to avoid tainting the peaceful life Dedue always deserved. Dimitri lies to himself that he's capable of it, that he doesn't yearn for Dedue like the nocturnal moth yearns for its first taste of light.

But he checks his e-mail, and his resolve crumbles before him. _It's fate,_ he thinks, _it must be_.

His advisor has just changed their meeting place to Mondatore's. Dimitri gets the feeling that he's about to become a regular.


	3. wartime // loss // victory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's dialogue taken verbatim from CF's Chapter 17: Field of Revenge in this section, specifically from the alternate ending event. All due spoiler alerts.
> 
> Please also take heed of some moderate descriptions of injury in this chapter, and also, that temporary character death tag.

Dimitri's been in town for just less than a fortnight when it suddenly dawns on Dedue that he hasn't been able to stop _thinking about him_.

It's his sister who points it out, actually, one evening after the dinner rush. Corinna, four years his junior, should really be studying for the Certification Exam that would let her pursue work in mechanical repair—but it's been the sort of night that goes from busy to silent in a flash, the diner empty at the end of Dedue's usual shift.

"Your regular is late," she tells him, absently flipping open a circuitry textbook as she takes his spot near the counter.

Dedue falters, but only because he knows exactly who it is she's talking about. He puts away the last of the clean dishes and doesn't say anything about it.

"I know it's too soon to call him _a regular_ for sure," she continues. "But we don't see many new faces lately. Besides, it looks like he's with Professor Lewis' excavation interns, and he's come to eat almost every day."

Just thinking about the project, Dedue finds himself momentarily blinded by a phantom-vision of fire. Every inhale tastes like smoke and iron, and he compulsively checks that all the stoves are off. He's never liked thinking about _why_ a Fhirdiad Humanities professor and her high-merit archaeology students would _need to_ excavate the remains of an Old Duscur, and the unsettling feeling's only escalated as of late.

"The interns already came," Dedue reminds her... reminds himself, maybe. He won't deny his disappointment that Dimitri wasn't among their number tonight.

Corinna only shrugs and picks up her pen. On the back of a used receipt, she starts drawing out the diagram for some magitechnical-electric hybrid circuit, and that's all for their conversation.

(Math was never his strong suit in the first place, but it was incomprehensible when electrical and magical currents were both involved.)

No, instead, she leaves him to his thoughts of the Fhirdiad history student who'd so passionately rejected the history books' traitorous version of Duscur; the man who intended to re-write those histories, to undertake the monumental task of pointing a blade towards the past itself. As if recovery for Duscur were possible, even _achievable_ , after the Tragedy; after the eight hundred years of merit-discrimination that rose from it.

Dimitri is far from being the first to try; he isn't even the first Dedue's personally met. But still, there's something about Dimitri that he finds so thoroughly captivating, so _all-consuming_ —as if something about him jogs a memory intrinsic to Dedue's sense of self.

Dedue wonders what it's like to hold his hand. He can imagine it with such detail that he starts to think he might have held it once before.

There is something familiar, something _comforting_ about existing in the same space as Dimitri. It's as if he _belongs_ at Dimitri's side, no matter what cost he must pay to stay there. He thought he would stay in Duscur for the rest of his life—too many have already abandoned the city that will forever be his home—but when Dedue looks into Dimitri's face, the thought comes unbidden: _I would follow you anywhere._

His hands hesitate in the middle of hanging up his apron for the night. He stares at the diner entrance as if willing the door to open.

"Your shift ended eighteen minutes ago," Corinna reminds him. "Your regular's not going to come, you know."

Dedue frowns, a worried furrow etching its way between his brows.

"I didn't mean it in a bad way," his sister waves her pen halfheartedly. "It's just, he usually only comes when you're on shift, and now you're not. He probably thinks you went home already, so he probably isn't coming."

Dedue inhales; he ignores the discomfited feeling that settles into his stomach and finishes putting away his apron. He checks the stove again (still broken, still disconnected from the gas) and then the griddle. He reminds his sister, "There is still leftover turkey from today's special... and soup."

"I'll eat right after I finish this problem," she answers, gesturing vaguely in his general direction. "Didn't you have books to return, too?"

Dedue looks at the sky. This close to the equinox, he probably still has close to an hour left before sunset. "Yes," he agrees reluctantly. "I should go return them."

Between the waiting and the line transfer, it's an hour at least by bus. It's potentially faster just to walk, so Dedue does. He leaves his items in the return deposit—two books, one VCR tape—and slips underneath the awning that signifies a bus stop.

Most of the factories closed when Dedue was a child; most of Duscur's population left the city for places with more opportunities. Buses only run on the hour, now, and they aren't as punctual as they used to be.

But Dedue has patience in spades, and the once-mild clouds now threaten to rain. No; better to tolerate the wait instead than to feel the cold droplets beat down against his skin, to feel a stream of rain mingle with his sweat as it trailed down his neck, to hear the plink of water against the metal of his armor...

* * *

The metal of his armor.

* * *

He felt the weight of it settle into his skin, the downpour's staccato against his armor nearly overtaking the noises that lingered in the aftermath of battle. The weight of Faerghus' loss settled in deep around him; the supply pack he carried held an entirely different weight to it.

The stone pulsated, vibrated—glowed, even, despite the weighty leather of his pack. But there was no time to reach for it; there was no point anymore, when he was bleeding heavily from some injury that made it hurt to walk.

It hurt even more to run, but he did. The sight of a lone body laying on a paved-stone dais spurred him on, his own voice crying out: "Your Majesty... Your Majesty!"

A mumble from the still figure ignited the smallest spark of hope within him: "Stop calling me that."

"Ah, thank the—" Dedue started, only to cut himself off as horror sank in. "No..."

 _No, no, anything but this,_ thought Dedue. He fell to his knees beside the fallen Tempest King—his liege, his friend, his most cherished person. The pool of blood beneath a blond head grew more quickly than the rain could wash it away, and when Dedue moved to adjust his position more comfortably, he could see the worsening head wound that dominated the right side of the king's face. He could see Dimitri's eye—the undamaged one—gaze up at him, filled with a bitter longing.

"Dedue," Dimitri said, his voice wavering and unfocused. "It seems I will die... before I can get revenge for everyone..."

The vassal felt his heart drop into his stomach, and he could form no adequate response, still stunned by his own grief. Sheer defeat began to overtake him, just as the rain slid beneath his armor to permeate his skin. _Not Dimitri, anyone but Dimitri._

But he continued to speak, despite the lack of response—slurred with the blurriness of blood loss and concussion, in his helpless, plaintive apology: "My family, my friends, my home... everything that truly mattered to me... I couldn't..."

"You're wrong," Dedue interrupted, unable to bear the thought that Dimitri's last thoughts would be of his regrets. Now, when he would forevermore lose his chance to tell Dimitri of his feelings, Dedue's heart came spilling out. "Because of you, I was able to live on until today. You saved me. These past nine years... I am proud to have been at your side."

It was the brief flicker of surprise in Dimitri's eye that encouraged him to complete the thought, to let him say at last: "It was a joy I never could have hoped for. Despite all, I count myself a lucky man."

"Is that so?" Dimitri asked. The smallest of smiles graced his war-torn face at last. "I see... I am glad..."

"You must be weary, Your Majesty," Dedue whispered, gently tugging the fur cloak tighter around Dimitri's body in an effort to provide some small, final comfort. "Please... rest in peace."

He tenderly brushed a damp lock of hair from the uninjured side of Dimitri's forehead, laying his lips on the skin there exposed. The king tasted of iron, of salt, of rain, _so much_ rain. Was it rain, then, that slid in twin rivulets down Dedue's cheeks?

His own vision began to blur, the blood loss from his own wound draining his energy from him. But as he wrapped his arms around the king—as though he could continue to shield him, even in death—even as he held Dimitri close in the last fleeting seconds of their lives, he strained to open his eyes.

He was rewarded with the last, voiceless movement of Dimitri's mouth. The pain of his wounds made it difficult to process whether it was true or merely wishful thinking. That the last word on the dying king's lips could be...

* * *

_Dedue..._

* * *

"Dedue!"

It's the sound of his name that reminds him to breathe, though Dedue isn't certain when he'd _stopped_. He blinks and the Tailtean Plains melt into mere fog, and all that remains is the bus stop outside one of Duscur City's libraries. Dimitri's still before him, but in lieu of the fatal head wound, there is only the uninjured skin of his temple and forehead, slightly interrupted by the ties that hold his eyepatch in place. He's soaked from the rain, but it sinks into the blue t-shirt that clings to the lean lines of his frame; there is no armor for it to pool and rattle over.

"Dedue," Dimitri says, his brow furrowed in concern. "Are you okay? I've been calling your name for the last five minutes... I hope you don't mind, but I just saw you waiting here, and—well, the last bus of the night must have left a while ago."

The vassal merely absorbs the sight of him for another moment: His Majesty, _Dimitri_ , alive and whole. Dedue realizes that a reply is required, and hesitantly answers, "The last bus for this stop is at nine-thirty."

"Dedue," Dimitri repeats, the furrow in his brow only deepening further. "Dedue, it's almost half past ten. I... if you need a ride somewhere..."

Dedue glances down towards his wrist, only to realize that his sister never _did_ finish repairing his watch. "I apologize to inconvenience you, Your Highness. However, I..."

But his sentence trails off, lost, when the helmet in Dimitri's off-hand clatters to the ground. He glances back up only to be met with the sight of Dimitri's mouth left slightly agape, his visible eye wide with horror.

Though the words felt natural to say, Dedue re-considers every one of them. He realizes, and mortification sets in.

"Dimitri," Dedue corrects himself, but he knows it is already too late—too late to rescind that title, too late to withdraw the reverence from his tone. He cannot turn back the hands of time to undo his slip; with every second that passes, it becomes less and less likely he'd be able to pass it off as a very dry, poorly-timed joke.

The answering silence is not comforting. Dimitri swallows, then purses his lips as if his mouth is dry. Dedue wonders, involuntarily, if they taste like rain—like tears and sweat and the blood of a dying king. Dimitri parts those lips, but no sound emerges. He closes his mouth, then tries again.

"Dedue," Dimitri manages to choke out at last. "How much do you remember?"

It's a difficult question. How can Dedue explain that the rain has always made its ripples within him, yet tonight is the first time memory has come over him like a wave? How can Dedue tell him that something stirred the still waters in his mind as soon as a stranger walked into Mondatore's nearly two weeks ago? How can he say that _even now_ the trembling of Dimitri's hands brings to mind the Garreg Mach training grounds, the memory of peeling a single black glove away and massaging out the ache of too many hours' lance-practice?

"More," he answers simply. "Every day... a little more."

A hollowness comes into Dimitri's eyes; a hitch into his breath. It is the haunted look of a man plagued by a lifetime's worth of ghosts and regrets.

"I am so sorry, Dedue..." Dimitri's voice shatters on his name. "That you would be forced to remember that era of warfare... words cannot express my sorrow. I... I wish... I _wished_ happier things for you, and now..."

"There is no need to apologize, Your Majesty," Dedue replies, and he wants to protect Dimitri's fragile heart now more than ever. "Because I was able to follow you, even here... I am glad."

"Please, I beg of you, do not call me by that title," Dimitri crumples a little, his shoulders bunching up. "For you to remember anything, anything at all... it is I who owes you a debt of gratitude. You have saved me in countless ways... more than enough to be considered my equal, if not my better."

"To hear you say such things..." Dedue breaks eye contact, so flattered as to be embarrassed at the idea. "A vassal cannot be equal to his king."

"The age for feudalism passed long ago. Vassals no longer exist, and I'm no king, Dedue. Not anymore, if I ever was," Dimitri whispers, so painfully close that his breath caresses Dedue's cheek. "All that's left is an ordinary man... if that is all right with you?"

 _Ordinary_ , he says, as if the very memory of royalty were not ingrained into his words, his posture, the depths of his eye... but in this world _not quite_ at war, where that birthright holds no ground, the space between them doesn't seem so insurmountable as it once was.

Dedue starts to dream that this time, it might be okay to transgress the boundary between vassal and king. To discard it, even, and meet each other as equals, ordinary man to ordinary man—to simply _exist_ with Dimitri, in ways he'd believed impossible before.

"Yes," answers Dedue. A flood of emotion wells up within him as he finally, finally acknowledges the feeling he's held all along, and because it bears repeating: "Yes."

It's difficult to say who leans in first, but when Dedue's lips touch Dimitri's for the first time in either of his lives, the Tailtean Plains evaporate; the vows of vassalage subsume beneath the pounding of his heart. Thirteen days (and nine years) of yearning comes to a head; they are counted in the raindrops that cling to Dedue's mouth even as Dimitri parts the embrace. Only the fear of loss still inflames him—the fear that he might lose this man a second time if he fails to act—and Dedue kisses him again, just to make sure this is reality.

Thus the present begins its triumph over the past: Dimitri holds him closer, and the tempest quells his fever.


	4. regret // destruction // hope // mending

It's somewhat more challenging with two people, but Dimitri's secondhand moped manages to carry them both back to his apartment building without incident. Careful not to overbalance the vehicle, he waits for Dedue to get off first; he plugs it into the communal charging station and fumbles the locking mechanism shut.

"I apologize to intrude," Dedue says. He cuts himself off before the _your majesty_ can slip out, but Dimitri can sense him thinking it.

"Do not apologize, Dedue," Dimitri swallows around the lump in his throat. He trembles like the storm outside, still oscillating between joy and grief that _Dedue remembers._ "I will _always_ welcome your presence... for as long as you are willing to endure mine."

A profound sadness softens Dedue's eyes—something that echoes of an expression Dimitri only saw once before, long ago on the plains of Tailtean, when the first of their volunteer sacrifices took on the shape of a demonic beast in the name of Faerghus' desperate hope. But that feeling might not be as horrible a thing as Dimitri feared, because that's when Dedue reaches out to hold his hand, and the distance between them closes once more.

"More than endured," Dedue corrects, squeezing his hand. "Cherished. Always."

Emotion threatens to overtake Dimitri, then. He presses his lips together, suppresses the urge to cry; he's afraid that if he opens his mouth, all that will emerge is a sob. He squeezes Dedue's hand back, eager to offer that reassurance, and his voice cracks on the words: "Thank you."

Dedue's only reply is a shuddery inhale as he takes Dimitri's other hand and squeezes that one, too. Then a hesitant, very slight smile.

He's right, Dimitri thinks. There are no words to describe the deep sense of comfort he derives from knowing Dedue is here, that he _remembers_ him. No, the silence suffices; the silence and the way their eyes meet, here and now, in the basement parking-lot of an apartment complex.

It takes him a minute or two to collect himself, to recollect the goosebumps forming on his skin and the uncomfortable way his soaked clothing drags on him. Dedue can't be much warmer, droplets sliding across the contours of his biceps and squelching in his waterlogged shoes.

Apparently, the same thought occurs to Dedue. "We should get dry," he suggests.

"Yes," replies Dimitri. "Of course."

He only gives enough pause to snag a plastic Hevrings bag from the moped's basket—two unopened energy drinks, a protein bar wrapper, and the prescriptions he'd spent almost four hours trying to get filled—and leads Dedue up two short flights of stairs. The thumbprint-scanner key doesn't work well when his hands are wet, so Dimitri has to reach for the ID in his wallet after the third failed attempt.

"Wait, please," Dimitri hesitates, still unsure if it's safe to take his eyes off Dedue for a single moment, afraid he might still disappear. "I... I have towels around here somewhere."

Dedue nods, but stays watchful, close. As he pulls open the closet, Dedue seamlessly picks up the shopping bag he's put down. Mercifully, he doesn't comment on any of the six stapled-together prescription packages. He overlooks the energy drinks, too, and Dimitri thinks he might be able to get away with it until Dedue pulls free the protein bar wrapper.

"I hope you ate more than this tonight," he says.

Dimitri's embarrassment sinks in, but he at least has the grace not to lie about it. "I was planning to eat something when I got back. The errand took me... longer than expected."

Dedue frowns worriedly, but even Dimitri is surprised by the comment that he makes next: "They're always understaffed."

Dimitri frowns back, his own concern increasing. "One would think, given the size of the area they serve... I mean, they are the only pharmacy within thirty minutes of here."

"Three hours. One way, by bus," Dedue crosses his arms pensively. "Few local merit committees choose people to become pharmacists. Most pharmacists outside Duscur refuse to move here."

Unfortunately, it isn't difficult to see why. Dimitri bites his lower lip, "I suppose the location is... further away from merit-assignation centers, so opportunities for promotion would be lower. And the industrial plants..."

"Have mostly closed," Dedue shakes his head. "It is good that they stopped polluting the lands of Duscur with chemical waste. But large companies think there are too few people left to justify opening more than one store."

"But a pharmacy," Dimitri repeats, a throb of pain seizing the right side of his face. "That isn't just a business—people need medication _to live_."

For what it's worth, Dedue makes a valiant attempt to keep the grief out of his voice when he says, "Those who have the opportunity to move away often do."

Dimitri finds the spare towels, but his fingers are locked; his hands are shaking to the point where he's lost the dexterity to pick them up. The extent of Duscur's suffering is deeper than he imagined—is this what fiscal warfare looks like, an ultimatum where citizens must leave or die? The legacy left by the Unification War—no, no intangible legacy, but a _continuation_ of the Tragedy of Duscur, still in the throes of a slow, cruel genocide.

It seems to him, in that moment, that he might never escape the clutches of the dead, that he might never outlive the weight of the crown. There's a distant sursurrus at the edge of his mind, muffled by a veil of eight hundred years, and the pain near his right eye flickers from bad to worse in memory of the blow to the head that caused his death, once, long ago.

His temple throbs in pitiful harmony. It's everything he can do to shut his eyes and remain conscious, his hands helplessly twitching over a towel just to ground himself in its texture.

But then a large, warm hand settles over his own, thumbing over the cold skin there in a long-forgotten motion. The warmth of Dedue's chest so close to his back, near enough that Dimitri thinks he might hear his heartbeat if it were quiet enough. 

"I apologize... Dimitri," Dedue says. The name comes out a little stilted, to be sure, but better than the silent _your majesty_ of before. "If I say something that upsets you, please do not hesitate to stop me. I did not intend to give you cause for concern."

"If it is something that concerns you, it is worth hearing," Dimitri inhales sharply. "I just... I just regret that I cannot do more to fix this. That I... _didn't_ do more, many years ago, when I had the power to do so."

"There was a war," replies Dedue. He only hesitates a little before saying, "It was not a war you started."

"No, it wasn't," Dimitri admits, confirming what Dedue does not— _cannot_ —remember yet. They might be stuck there all night if Dimitri enumerated all his past mistakes, and so he merely summarizes: "That does not mean I don't have many, many regrets about the actions I took... about the people those actions harmed. The sacrifices I was willing to make, the lies I was willing to believe... all justified in the name of a personal revenge." 

Dedue falters, then. That confirms all Dimitri needs to know about the bend of his memories; about the places where they fade and mere history takes over.

He takes a towel and wraps it around Dimitri's shoulders. "You should shower and get warm. Where is your kitchen?"

Dimitri frowns. "You must be freezing, too. Of course, you should shower first—you are my guest, after all."

"I was not cold for long," Dedue shakes his head, backing away. "And you were in the rain much longer than I was."

It feels, for a moment, as if the gap between them has widened a little. Worry worms its way into Dimitri's heart; it settles there like a brick. "Dedue, I... we..."

"... many years have passed since we last met," Dedue answers, taking a towel for himself. "It would be difficult to discuss all of them in one night."

Relief washes over Dimitri like a tidal wave, and he cannot help but smile back. "You are right, of course... I suppose I am just a little impatient to catch up with you." He adds, a little shyly, "I... I have missed you so much, Dedue."

"Apologies for the late arrival... Dimitri." And the implicit _your highness_ vanishes entirely beneath the tenderness of Dedue's expression, the soft and quiet way he adds, "I have missed you, too."

And there's a part of Dimitri that wants to go back in time, a part of him that wants to tell the Tempest King of an era long past that hope lies not in the Church of Seiros nor in his other religion, revenge, but in the man who walks a step behind him. He wants to tell him that the violence of war will leave scars on Fódlan's future—in its people as well as its lands—and that destruction begets nothing but more destruction, more hurt.

No, he thinks, true power is here: not in the approval of distant gods and the yet more distant dead, but in the cadence of Dedue's voice, in the subtle shifts of his expression as his past memories piece themselves together right before Dimitri's eyes.

And Dimitri will savor it when they trade off turns with the shower and he finds the apartment fragrant with cooking-oil and spice. He will savor the opportunity to return the favor by preparing hot mugfuls of tea, by offering Dedue a change of clothes while his own are drying. He will savor the words upon his lips when he invites Dedue to share his bed—innocently, like when they were children in a past life—and above all, he will savor the chaste, half-furtive kiss they'll share and its lingering, mild chamomile flavor.

He will think back to a king whose world was without taste for the last nine years of his life; he will think: _I wish I could tell him that all things have hope of repair._


	5. alternate universe (reincarnation) // wild card (palimpsest)

Mrs. Tico-Mondatore is surprised, to say the least, when her son shows up to a breakfast shift thirteen minutes late, riding on the back of a too-small moped with faded, chipped blue paint.

It isn't that Dedue has _never_ lost track of time with his friends, but it was never a common occurrence. Even as a child, he was always a quiet, introspective sort: friendly enough, but more likely to spend his free afternoons in the city's community garden or caring for their windowsill-planters than playing kickball or loitering at a shopping-center. When he did meet up with friends regularly, those occasions were few and far-between. They were even further-between as of late, though that was more because so many of his classmates had left town as quickly as they were able.

The driver—a lean, pale young man whose frame echoes the wiry strength of a hungry wolf—holds the vehicle steady to ensure Dedue's weight doesn't overturn it. He can't be one of Dedue's friends back visiting, she thinks, if only because she's sure she would have remembered seeing an electric scooter _that ugly_. But then, the stranger takes off his own helmet, turns his head to say something.

She catches sight of the eyepatch, and frowns over the coffee machine. In this world where a meritocrat's first impression could decide your entire future, it's rare for someone to so publicly advertise a vision impairment. Rare enough that she immediately knows where she's seen him before.

"That's one of Professor Lewis' interns, isn't it?" she asks out loud, narrowing her eyes. She never bothers learning their names—not when they only stay for one summer, cutting their teeth on archaeology digs, summarizing the experience into a résumé bullet-point, and leaving without so much as a glance back.

(She knows the fancy Fhirdiad universities only send the newer students here to expend the clumsiest stage of their learning curve on the _allegedly sturdy_ remnants of a civilization that existed eight hundred years ago. She knows Professor Lewis has no option but to take whomever the merit committees assign, but still, Mrs. Tico-Mondatore feels ill at ease letting those strangers manhandle the last surviving fragments of her peoples' history.)

Mrs. Mondatore-Tico—the diner's current proprietor, whose grandparents founded Mondatore's in the thirties—is notably less bemused when she, too, peers out the front window, squinting mildly through the morning post-rain fog.

" _Is_ he one of Lewis's? I never asked," she says. "That one looks like Dedue's regular, though, if two weeks ever made a regular. Spent a few afternoons just typing in here earlier this week... must be pretty special if Dedue left home so early to see him."

Mrs. Tico-Mondatore's brow furrows, but she refuses to give voice to her hypothesis that Dedue's already _spent the night_ with that stranger. All she knows for certain is that he wasn't home at three AM, when she'd gone to the diner herself to prepare the day's bread; she'd have to ask their daughter whether he came back at all last night.

But somewhere deep inside her heart, she already knows the answer. It's written in her way her son traces his thumb over that stranger's cheek in their goodbye; it's in the quiet apology Dedue makes before he begins bussing tables at last.

It's incredibly unexpected—Dedue's never given any indication of being interested in romance. So she's surprised again when he insists on introducing Dimitri to them more formally, and her confusion only persists when Dedue solemnly suggests that he would like to _move in_ with his _boyfriend_ after less than a month's acquaintance.

Mrs. Tico-Mondatore begins to worry that it's teenage rebellion showing itself ten years late; that the exhilaration of a whirlwind romance will tear through her eldest child like a storm and leave him cold and half-drowned at the end. Her wife, though she means well, only suggests that young love works in mysterious ways, that it doesn't simply wait to happen. Fondly exasperated, Mrs. Tico-Mondatore wonders what romance novel she's most recently checked out of the library.

But she's surprised—pleasantly, this time—when Dimitri politely informs her that no, he is _not_ one of the archaeology students; though he is from the same school, he's deliberately _left Fhirdiad_ to pursue the study and preservation of Duscurian history under the foremost expert on the subject. She's surprised when he spends hours, one weekend, hunched over an age-old cookbook with Dedue and his other mother, trying to figure out which recipe that ancient eight-pronged fork might be used for.

It's true, she thinks, that Dedue's mothers see less of their son these days... but something about the way he and Dimitri exist in the same space holds her back from complaint.

* * *

The only advance warning he receives is an all-lowercase _hello father_ , and for the nth time since his son's first cell-phone, Dimitri's father rues the advent of the text-message.

Professor Egitte—famously dubbed the Medieval-Era Egghead of the Caledon Historical Institute—is accustomed to piecing together information in his line of work, deriving context clues from vague, incomplete articles. Still, he doesn't know what to make of that " _hello father_ ," not when it is so summarily followed by " _I have met someone wonderful here in Duscur. His name is Dedue, and I would like it very much if you could meet him._ "

It's been a grand total of _five weeks_ since his son went to study in Duscur. The information that Dimitri is seeing someone seriously seems so sudden, so out-of-the-blue, that Professor Egitte exits the text-messaging application and opens it up again, just in case there was an additional text he'd missed, somehow.

Alas, no such message miraculously appears. It is perhaps too much to hope that further context will be furnished in a subsequent message.

As he so often does, Egitte's son positively perplexes him... though, then again, Dimitri has always been just a little bit beyond his comprehension. Egitte could perhaps see how his own work as a historian might have influenced Dimitri's decision to take the Tempest King's name as his own, or even his decision to study the history of Duscur. The explanation, however, broke down completely with respect to Dimitri's remarkable fluency in the Middle Fódlan tongue, his bizarre sibling rivalry with Edelgard, and all of those unusually-detailed, upsettingly violent nightmares he'd suffered as a child.

No, Professor Egitte doubts he will ever fully understand his son—now that he considers it, hasn't his wife always found Edelgard pretty inscrutable, too? Perhaps all parents feel that way about their children, he thinks, and decides that he isn't going to let that get in the way of supporting Dimitri.

It takes him all of a minute and a half to shuffle over to Dimitri's childhood bedroom, now converted into a guest room. Perhaps just half a minute to gently open a book, plus ten seconds to snap a photograph. He spends the next six minutes searching online, trying to figure out how to turn a sideways picture right-side up.

Alongside a photograph of Dimitri's Varley Manuscript poster and the antique anthology perpetually bookmarked at _The Ballad of Sir Molinaro_ , Egitte sends the message: _Hmmm, that name sounds very familiar. Have I met him before?_

There's one quick response— _FATHER_ , in all caps—followed by a lengthy period of silence. However, three pale grey blinking dots appear, and Egitte seems to remember his stepdaughter informing him that they indicate the other person is typing, so he patiently waits.

 _Yes, my Dedue shares many traits with the one of legend,_ Dimitri eventually sends back. Unfortunately, that seems like it might be the only context Egitte is going to get, because the second half of the same text reads, _I would greatly appreciate it if you could please take those down and move them elsewhere. Thank you._

It's a vague enough response that Egitte thinks his son might actually be embarrassed, so he only replies with a short list of days he expects to be available to meet this elusive Dedue. But while Dimitri's occupied composing an answer, he takes down the poster and rolls it up; he places it in an errant cylindrical mailing-tube which then goes into the box of miscellany Dimitri forgot to take with him when he moved.

Before shuffling it in with the rest of his son's historical shrine, Egitte pauses a bit over the anthology, skimming the poem. He knows the context of the work: it's from a well-known sixteenth-century poet's early career as an opera librettist, so naturally, it's modeled after the popular aubades of that era. It's certainly an interesting creative choice to parallel a vassal's devotion with that of a lover's, but then again, the stage and the silver screen have always been prone to indulging in needless romantic subplots—Egitte should know, he's married to an actress.

So, he doesn't think further of it when he wraps the book in butcher-paper and sandwiches it between Dimitri's spare sweaters and the poster. He'll never know how close to the truth he is.

* * *

But though there are universes, yes, and timelines aplenty, the way Dedue wakes up in the morning is far from being one of his mother's romantic-comedy novels; it is far from any tale told in medieval librettos.

He used to be a quieter sleeper, but he dreams more vividly now, throwing bedsheets away from his skin as if he's being woken to go into battle, as if the paralytic constriction of the blankets stand in the way of his stalwart defense. He moves as he remembers in his sleep; he cries out, too, but the ancient memories refuse to stop their advance until he is at last thrown from his tumultuous slumber. Therein lies the real reason why he moves in with Dimitri so swiftly—not for any ill-advised impulse of young love, and not for his centuries-old yearning for the King of Faerghus.

On the worse nights, he wakes up at hellish hours, laying on the throw-rug next to Dimitri's—their—bed, most of the blanket tangled awkwardly around one leg. The first reminder that he isn't bleeding out at Tailtean has often been Dimitri clumsily falling off after him, blurry and panicked and still fighting off the effects of the sleep meds in his system. The whimper and thud he emits as he hits the carpet, again, is almost always followed by a heavy whisper: "Dedue, come back."

In the darkness of their surroundings, it's all too easy to lose track of details like time and space and relationship. The only thing that seems real at all is Dimitri, but even then, sometimes he's vehemently swearing that he'll personally disembowel Edelgard's second-in-command or bring back the heads of every conspirator in the Tragedy of Duscur.

Once, horrifically enough, Dedue blearily pushed him away with a weak protest of _your highness,_ his past concerns about propriety bleeding into the waking world. It hasn't happened again since, but he cannot disqualify the possibility: scarcely sixteen nights have passed since he first moved into Dimitri's apartment.

(He still struggles to think of it as _theirs_.)

Though these deluges of memory continue to surface, however, it is still better than the disruptive slumber that followed his first remembrance of Tailtean, recurring every night for almost two weeks. More than merely disturbing his own rest, that thunderous dreaming had woken his mothers and sister more than once—and when Dimitri offered up his empathy, his own experiences, and his apartment's spare key-card, Dedue (somewhat guiltily) accepted.

But now, he is glad that he did. Now—on one of the better nights—he wakes for no apparent discernible reason, his mind lingering briefly in the greenhouses of Garreg Mach. The light coming through the window tells him it's already midmorning; the way Dimitri's weight sits on the mattress beside him suggests that he's already awake.

"Good morning, Dedue," Dimitri whispers. A slight, soft smile graces his face, and Dedue can't help but offer a lopsided half-smile back.

The patterns they fell into as a king and his vassal will probably never fade from their relationship entirely, but like this, Dedue thinks it will be no hardship to grow into a new life together. Certainly, though he has little good to say about Edelgard or the meritocracy she incited war to create, there are fewer barriers imposed between them in this age where Crests and royal birthrights are relegated to history alone; few enough that Dedue finds himself reaching across them to take Dimitri's hand.

Maybe he always could have done it. Maybe Dimitri had always extended that hand to him, hoping that Dedue would someday reach back. It's the clarity of hindsight, perhaps, that brings the thought to mind at all.

"Dimitri," he begins, voice still warm and low with sleep. "I apologize to have kept you waiting."

"There is no need," Dimitri answers, oblivious to the double-meaning of Dedue's words. His fingers gently brush a bit of hair from Dedue's face. "You were overdue for a restful night's sleep, and I... I enjoyed it."

 _Existing together_ , Dedue thinks— _only_ existing, like any other couple with plans to spend a day at home. There are still darkened, unexplored corners within the palimpsest of his memory, but still, he feels instinctively certain that such days never existed in the lives of the Tempest King and the retainer who guarded him. Perhaps a few in their childhood, he amends, before they'd met each other.

"I am glad... I enjoy it, too," Dedue answers.

He's almost lightheaded with the prospect that he can now revel in this luxury that would have been impossible in a past life, that he is allowed and even _welcome_ in Dimitri's company, his living-space, his bed. Part of him thinks he might still be dreaming, but Dedue's muscles stretch wakefully as he adjusts his posture more comfortably, shifting his weight to one side. As if it is the natural next step in their dance, Dimitri sets his open notebook beside the laptop that's already open on their makeshift nightstand.

The sight of that plastic card table reminds Dedue that they should _really_ discuss budgeting for additional furniture. For now, though, he is more than content to settle into his place at Dimitri's side, his shoulders propped up on the pillows, his arm resting under Dimitri's neck.

One of Dimitri's own arms comes to wrap itself loosely around Dedue's chest. He draws himself close, so close that his breaths ghost against the corner of Dedue's mouth. "Is it okay if I...?"

It is clear enough what he wants to do, and Dedue's breath catches on the emotion bottled up in his chest. "Yes," he says, and Dimitri kisses him, slow and chaste.

There might have been a scar there, once, but the slates of their bodies have been wiped clean of past etchings. The war injuries that once drew constellations into Dedue's skin have disappeared; the same canvas is re-used now for the subtler remnants of gardening scrapes and minor kitchen accidents.

Even the deep grooves across his back Dimitri once earned for his protection of a boy from Duscur—they are invisible now, in the same way the fatal head wound at Tailtean has left him unmarked but half-blind. The only bodily scars Dimitri yet shares with his past life are the symmetrical arcs mirrored on each side of his chest, but even these are thinner, less visible, more smoothly mended than the ones he had before.

But though the wounds yet linger in their minds, caught within the gouged recesses of their memories, the tangible world relinquishes not its hold. The devotion of the vassal, its network of roots once kept hidden in his heart, sprouts above-ground into the light that this new era affords him. The emotion stutters in his throat, but ultimately, blooms.

Their lips part from each other only a moment before Dedue kisses him again, and perhaps their parents aren't wrong about the nature of romantic impulse, after all.


	6. cherishing // flowers

Dimitri's _nervous_ about it when he quietly suggests that, for Dedue's birthday, he would like to take him for a visit to the botanical gardens in Enbarr.

Certainly, Dedue's mothers were perplexed enough by the suggestion, though they'd ultimately conspired to ensure Dedue's shifts were all covered at the end of the Verdant Rain Moon. While Enbarr had the romantic elements of an enormous, bustling city with a millenniums-old history, the hours they would need to spend traveling—eleven hours by train, not counting the transfer waits at both the Rhodos Coast and Garreg Mach Central—made it far from an ideal three-day weekend trip.

He's worried, really, that Dedue has some reservations about going—that he'll agree before he's ready because of a timeframe he's afraid to miss, or because of some misplaced sense of responsibility. Dimitri isn't even sure he's right in guessing that Dedue would want to visit _at all_ , and so he amends his proposal: "But we could also visit Rhodos instead, if you would prefer staying closer to home. And if there is somewhere else you would rather go or something else you would prefer to do... in any case, I only meant to suggest going somewhere that I thought you might enjoy."

Dedue subtly lowers his eyes to his empty teacup, a slight furrow forming between them. "... the Enbarr botanical gardens."

"Yes," Dimitri confirms. He isn't sure what to make of Dedue's expression, so he adds, "Or anywhere else you might like to visit."

"I do not understand," Dedue finally admits, putting his teacup down. "They may have the largest collection of plants in Fódlan... but to warrant such a trip..."

A lump forms in Dimitri's throat as he realizes it's entirely possible Dedue _hasn't heard_ , that the news never reached Duscur city's radio broadcasts and televised news. He licks his lips and tries, awkwardly, to explain, "Because of the endangered species' exhibits. When they discovered that collection of seeds from plants that were thought to be extinct for centuries..."

Recognition briefly lights Dedue's expression, but the realization only renders his tone more solemn, "Including the flowers of Duscur. Or... what is left of them."

Dimitri frowns back pensively, still unsure what to make of the collection's existence at all. The mysterious catalog that had been found in Ordelia—the labels and drawings pasted to small packets of seeds from Duscur and Remire and even the ancient Ailell—as if someone had known those areas were about to go up in flames... the idea that someone had _planned_ those tragedies so far in advance that they'd even taken steps to attempt repopulating the wildlife afterwards...

"Whoever made those drawings and collected those seeds," Dimitri swallows, clenching his hands in his lap to prevent their shaking. "Whoever they were, it seems very likely that they were involved in destroying Duscur."

Dimitri remembers someone telling him, once, that those who emerge victorious are the ones who survive to write the world's history. He knows that Adrestian hands began to write and re-write Faerghus' history as soon as the Unification War came to a close; he knows the triumphant Empire eventually destroyed or censored any historical texts that disagreed with Edelgard's ideals.

Somehow, though, for this piece of Duscur's history to have survived _because_ of its destroyers, rather than in spite of them... somehow, it sets Dimitri ill at ease.

Conflict overtakes Dedue's expression, too, as he struggles to reconcile the idea: "Those who would try to destroy the people of a nation... and still make record of its plants..."

"No, I do not understand them, either," Dimitri takes a deep, shaky breath. "It is worrisome, and yet... it is because of that record that the Enbarr gardens were able to clone some of the plants that once bloomed all across Duscur. They—they will be on display for the public for the first time, this month..."

"And you thought I would like to see them," Dedue finishes, understanding the thought at last.

"And I thought you would like to see them," Dimitri echoes back weakly. He feels foolish for suggesting it, now.

But Dedue's expression softens, and he leans over the kitchenette's table to take Dimitri's hand. "You are willing to go? It is... no small expense to travel that far."

Relief washes over Dimitri at the thought that it wasn't a terrible suggestion, after all. He manages a slight smile and replies, "I would not have suggested it otherwise. You... you would truly like to, then?"

"It is not something I thought of before," Dedue confesses. "I believed the flowers were lost when Duscur burned... that even the fields would not return, after eight hundred years of industry and its pollution. That even some proof of them was able to survive..."

 _Yes,_ Dimitri thinks, and an unnameable emotion wells in his heart. Though the original seeds that were their vessels perished amidst the sands of time, those flowers left enough of an impression on history that their essence emerged once more. Despite the tragedy that nearly destroyed them, those flowers still came into bloom—brought to life through genetics, magic, the spirit of rebirth.

"Yes," Dimitri says at last. "To finally have the chance to see the flowers of Duscur with you... it seems like a miracle."

If he must be completely honest, it seems like than one miracle coming to a head at this apex: Dedue's hand in his own as they're crouched together over mismatched teacups, making plans to see the extinct flowers of Duscur in all their reconstructed glory. The flowers, yes, and the tea—his recovered sense of taste. But above all, Dedue, in this version of himself that not only lives and remembers, but willingly sheds the formalities of title and rank. Willingly shares his life with Dimitri, though duty no longer holds him.

He refuses to take moments like these for granted, like those precious things he once cast aside in the name of revenge—especially now, when he's no longer certain his fury was righteous at all. Especially when his penance is not done yet; when he must find some way to make suitable reparations to Duscur, though they come eight centuries late.

Dimitri's gaze meets Dedue's, and he tries to commit every detail of this evening to memory. There is much he must atone for still, but too there is mercy in this world, and miracles, magic. All of it is here, in the smile-lines that begin to crease the corner of Dedue's eyes.

"I will cherish the experience, Dimitri," Dedue replies, and Dimitri never wants to forget the sound of his name on those lips.


	7. past // present // future

Though he has never been to Enbarr—either in this life or the past—Dedue feels reasonably certain of what he can expect when he arrives. Even if the capitol of Fódlan were not the center of its business and its cinema and its televised news, the eleven hours of travel-time (thirteen, counting the transfer waits) have afforded Dimitri ample time to speak of summers spent at his stepmother's residence there.

The fact that they were able to secure seats at all is likely due in part to that connection, that explanation that allows Dimitri to claim partial residence in that city. In this world where that nebulous "merit" takes precedence above all else, even the acquisition of train tickets necessitates a competition.

Dedue can imagine the early implementation of Fódlan's allegedly free train network: a low-ranking meritocrat in a transportation bureau somewhere, reading ticket request forms and evaluating which applicants would take which trains. But now, though the process is swifter and more automated, the secondary market for those tickets thrives as the need for last-minute travel increases.

For most of his life, Enbarr was out of reach for that reason alone. The demand is high enough that only the very wealthy can outright _buy_ a ticket; the data chip in Dedue's ID card informs the transportation bureaus that his occupation merits no travel, and thus, that his priority is nonexistent.

Well, not literally _nonexistent_. But the conductor of the Garreg Mach-to-Enbarr train pauses over Dedue's ticket and ID with a stilted, confused look. Their smile towards him is condescending, pitying, stiff. Maybe they never see anyone with merit-ratings lower than one-hundred travel to Enbarr for leisure; he isn't sure.

Dedue's a little embarrassed about it, though he _knows_ the system that assigns those numbers is an inherently discriminatory one—the meritocracy that passes judgement on his very value to society is the same that unyieldingly enforces his place in it. But it's another feeling that rises in him as Dimitri levels his one-eyed glare at the conductor until they leave, pulling their bags from the overhead compartment himself.

"I forgot to mention," says Dimitri, low and venomous. "Here in Enbarr, there are _occasionally_ people who think themselves important, for no other reason than because some economist decided that simply _existing_ in the capitol should increase one's merit ratings. Please, Dedue, do not pay them any attention... regardless of what some arbitrary file says, they are beneath your notice."

Is it odd that Dedue's heart clenches at the protective way Dimitri pulls him into the same space, like adjutants in battle? He is so accustomed to thinking of himself as Dimitri's shield that the reverse still evokes the vision of the Prince of Faerghus at thirteen years of age, the arms that spread out protectively and the body that imposed itself between Dedue and the blade that might have ended his life.

Dimitri's brow furrows more deeply, but the anger leaves his tone when he questions, "Dedue?"

Dedue shakes his head and tries to remain at the train station in Enbarr; he inhales and reminds himself that the year is not 1176 but 2015. "I was lost in thought... _Your Majesty_."

"Ah," Dimitri realizes. Though he can say nothing more in such a public location, he takes Dedue's hand and squeezes it reassuringly. "We... we _have_ been up since almost three o'clock this morning. If you would like to turn in early..."

"I am fine," Dedue shakes his head, venturing a small smile. "But we have an early morning tomorrow, as well. It may be wise to rest for the remainder of this evening."

It's clear that Dimitri understands the message; his posture relaxes as he smiles back. "Yes, you are probably right. Would you like to get takeout, perhaps?"

It's a simple enough process; Dimitri calls one of his stepmother's favorite takeout restaurants as they wait for one of Enbarr's many buses. It is rare for Dedue to have a meal he hasn't cooked himself—he enjoys the task enough that he rarely relinquishes it—but he's curious about the Brigidian cuisine popular in southern Fódlan and the unique spices used.

(The thought of Brigid, in general, tends to call to mind a classmate they might have known in another life. Here is all Dedue remembers of her: braided hair, a lost dictionary, the flash of a silver blade at Tailtean.)

He expects a minimum of conflict, based on Dimitri's descriptions earlier that afternoon. They garner some odd looks and a child's openmouthed stare, but nothing more, and he tries not to read into them too deeply. It's true that, between Dimitri's eyepatch and Dedue's towering height, they do stick out a little.

No, the conflict fails to emerge until they're already outside Casseiopeia Egitte's apartment—an apartment they'd expected to find vacant. With Dimitri's stepmother away for location-filming, and his stepsister supposedly already in the dorms of Garreg Mach, Dedue has no reason to anticipate it, when it comes.

They're discussing something as mundane as tomorrow's bus routes when Dimitri thumbs open the lock with his fingerprint, turning the doorknob. But there's a clattering noise from within, a cardboard box that falls to the floor. The shuffle of papers falling to the ground.

Eyes lock, blue into lavender. It's true that she bears little resemblance to her past self, but it's uncanny, the image the two of them pull to the front of Dedue's mind—they are missing their armor, and Areadbhar, and Aymr, but otherwise they face each other with the same cold fury they held on the battlefield over eight centuries ago.

"El," Dimitri begins. Despite the nickname, he can keep neither the whisper of a growl from his voice, nor the deadly, dangerous overtones. "What are you doing here?"

He doesn't deign to acknowledge the other person in the room—her co-conspirator, her second-in-command—but the way he straightens his back and positions himself in the doorway is enough of a sign that he's _seen_ him. That he wants protect Dedue from him.

(Dedue's limbs ache in an echo of a wound from long ago. He can't help but remember: his last confrontation with Hubert von Vestra ended in injuries so severe that the King of Faerghus had ordered him to retreat; yes, it ended in bleeding out on the Tailtean Plains, his dying body wrapped around Dimitri's own.)

"This is my home," Edelgard enunciates. It's clear that she doesn't merely mean the apartment, but the city of Enbarr itself, the place where she was born and raised in both her lives. Her eyes shift slightly in Dedue's direction, but she doesn't address him. "Mother didn't say you were bringing a guest."

"She may not have thought to mention it," Dimitri narrows his eye. "Since she expected you to be at school."

"I just came to retrieve some things I forgot to take," Edelgard lifts her chin. "And to perhaps have a few drinks with my friends. That is hardly a crime."

"Yes," Dimitri casts a disdainful look in the general direction of the cardboard boxes and the man standing over them, hovering near Edelgard. "Yes, I see."

As they speak, Dedue locks eyes with Edelgard's vassal, the one who directly caused his death in another life. Hubert—if that's even still his name—gives a small nod in Dedue's direction. Dedue gives the slightest nod back. There are no hard feelings between them, or at least none pertaining to Dedue's death. Only a mutual dislike, if also a mutual respect: they both know that if Dedue had been just a split second faster, their confrontation at Tailtean would have resulted in Hubert's end instead.

This is the same cold stare that he and Dedue have exchanged before, centuries ago in their academy days; it is the silent suspicion with which they have always regarded each other. It is the look that all retainers surely must know, for it is the one that carries the unspoken declaration: _I do not trust you within ten miles of my liege._

Edelgard's cheek twitches, and then it's obvious that she's more affected by the tension than she lets on otherwise. It's her cutting voice that breaks the silence, even as she crosses her arms across her chest, "My employer had files noting that Lady Andrea Kleiman sold several of her investments to make a large payment to an unspecified group of mercenaries in 1175. Though the transaction was completed under the Boromas Law Firm's purview, the documents are remarkably vague and were never submitted for financial history records."

"The dowager viscountess was always an ambitious woman... I would not put it past her to have fronted the funding, if her sons stood to gain territory and power from it," Dimitri spits vehemently. Then, with a recalcitrant fury, "There is legal precedent for the nonviolent removal of a leading local meritocrat. The Vice Meritocrat of Kleiman province in 1634, Vincent Warner, was wrongfully convicted of tax fraud and removed from office shortly after it was discovered that he had a grandparent of Duscur descent. Though he was acquitted in a retrial, they were never able to prove he was removed on a discriminatory basis."

"You will have a PDF for me, of course," Edelgard prompts levelly.

"One does not simply _digitally scan_ a four-hundred-year-old exemplification," Dimitri scowls. "I am in the process of retyping it. You will have it when I am done. Should I assume that you took pictures of those documents?"

"Yes, but they aren't the originals, either," Edelgard tisks. "Invoice copies. Re-written in 1190."

"I will accept it if there is nothing else," Dimitri's nose twitches a little, even as he reaches blindly backward, as if to feel for Dedue's presence.

Dedue helpfully reaches out to take his hand. Even so, he presses his lips together, unsure what to make of Dimitri and his stepsister—the Tempest King and the Flame Emperor reborn.

Dimitri has spoken before of Edelgard and the penance he believes they share, but it is another thing to see them both in person. It is true that they seem to go through the motions of siblings, yes, but everything he thinks he knows about family seems insufficient to describe them; he cannot even _begin_ to compare this kind of tension with his sister's arguments over diner shifts. And yet, though it is clear they have not forgotten the way they faced each other down with an intent to kill, once... they are not quite who they were at Tailtean.

"You are... allies," Dedue ventures uncertainly. He speaks out loud in the hope that, if he is wrong, one of them will correct him.

"Of a sort," Edelgard acknowledges, though she still seems to be evaluating him, evaluating his very existence. "I won't insult your intelligence by suggesting otherwise... we cooperate mostly out of convenience."

"Out of _necessity_ ," Dimitri disagrees. It's a testament to the extent of his discomfort that he not only squeezes Dedue's hand, but pulls him closer.

"I see," Dedue replies quietly. It doesn't sit well with him, either... to be more apt, _she_ doesn't sit well with him. He cannot even look at her without necessarily calling to mind an age where she wielded Aymr, its crest stone glowing viciously as she brought that weapon down unto Dimitri's head.

Hubert—or the man who wears his face and his memories, at any rate—clears his throat. He interjects, "I suggest we take our leave, Lady Edelgard. We are already late to meet Dorothea and Ferdinand."

"Right. Of course," Edelgard smoothly picks up two of the cardboard boxes she's packed, leaving the third for Hubert. She gives another askance look in Dedue's direction before addressing Dimitri, "We were all planning to end the night at Dorothea's, anyways. I won't interfere with your... whatever this is... though I assume it has something to do with borrowing mother's botanical gardens' pass."

"Yes," Dimitri answers tersely. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

His hands come away from the door frame, and Dedue picks up their luggage to shuffle backwards, into the hall. Edelgard exits at an arms' length, not even looking at the pair of them, but her retainer casts them one last dubious look before he follows.

The past ebbs away from its encroachment into the present, and Dimitri almost sags into the apartment, his shaking hands attempting to set the takeout bags down on a counter.

"Dimitri." Dedue shuts the door behind them, hurrying to guide those hands with his own.

"My apologies, Dedue," Dimitri replies, his voice trembling. "I knew it might not be possible to avoid her indefinitely, but I truly did not expect—I thought we would have some _advance notice_ , some time to prepare. And of course, the wretched pet rat that followed her from one life to the next..."

Dedue pauses; he takes a slow, calming breath. The hand over Dimitri's gently squeezes in a modest reassurance. "It was unexpected... but I am grateful that they left without further incident."

"I suppose that is one thing to be grateful for. It... it could have gone very badly," Dimitri offers a firm squeeze back. "You are alright, Dedue?"

Dedue evaluates, anchors himself back in his body. His heartbeat is already slowing from the rush adrenaline that rose in him at those recollections, though he isn't sure when it picked up in the first place. "Nausea," Dedue admits. "Some abdominal pain."

"It is unfortunate, but I am not surprised... that is the place where he hurt you, after all," Dimitri turns, gently putting a hand directly over the place from which his pain radiates. "I know there isn't exactly a wealth of precedent for it, but sometimes, when I meet Edelgard—the right side of my head—"

"I see," says Dedue, carefully leaning his cheek against that side of Dimitri's forehead. "The past..."

"Yes," Dimitri manages a wry smile. "Insistent, isn't it? For what it is worth, Dedue... from the bottom of my heart, I am truly sorry. That you could not live a life of peace, and became involved in the war..."

Dedue inhales. He thinks about a teenaged prince throwing himself before a blade, about a young king swearing his vengeance at any cost, about Faerghan troops carrying stolen Crest Stones into battle. "Please do not apologize, Dimitri. Many things happened back then... but I do not regret the choices I made. To have been by your side was enough—is still enough."

"In this lifetime," Dimitri whispers. "Will you allow me return that favor? To stay by yours?"

Someday, Dedue thinks, there will be a Fódlan that boasts of having Duscur blood; in their current lives, he and Dimitri will do everything they can to ensure that future comes to fruition. Tomorrow, they will spend hours standing and staring at the flowers of Duscur in their reincarnated blooms; Dedue will inevitably despair at the botanists' unnaturally-organized landscapes. There will be a day when those flowers are re-introduced back to the wilds of a Duscur where nature overtakes the industrial once more. Maybe it will be his own hands that replant them, and if his good fortune continues, they will be beside Dimitri's.

The future expands before him in its myriad paths, but of this Dedue feels certain: he will ask Dimitri to marry him someday, in this world where the conventions that once stood between them sublimate into a faraway past.

But now, Dedue answers: "Yes." And because it bears repeating, "Always, yes."

The summer before Dedue turns twenty-five, a stranger comes to Duscur in a storm of memories and mists. But in the autumn when they return, he will be a stranger no longer—and in this lifetime, Dimitri will settle into the city like rainwater into the roots of an ancient tree.

Together, they live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
